


Together, Or Not At All

by ThatSassyCaptain



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, No Slash, Shoutout to Laura- the tag wrangler who will most likely wrangle this, Suspense, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:11:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4019275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSassyCaptain/pseuds/ThatSassyCaptain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AOS retelling of the resolution of 'Wolf in the Fold'. McCoy and Spock are dragged back in time as Adminstrator Hengist tires to escape. How will they survive the challenges of 19th century Earth AND catch a superhuman serial killer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together, Or Not At All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ultrageekatlarge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultrageekatlarge/gifts).



> For Becca, bonesbuckleup, or Ultrageekatlarge. This, I hope, is what you wanted. I crammed in as many references as I thought I could get away with. 
> 
> And It's going to all be one chapter because I am a tired menace. I'm way too lazy to section out chapters at 1 AM.

Shore leave wasn’t supposed to be like this. Doctor McCoy was irritated with the whole affair. When they’d landed on Argelius II- a planet renowned for its excellent hotels, bars, and entertainment centers- he’d planned on a relaxing four days of carefree leave. He was supposed to be barhopping with Jim and Scotty, just like they’d planned.

Certainly he _wasn’t_ supposed to be running behind Spock, helping to chase down a murderer in the city’s back alleys.

It had all gone to pot when he and Jim had found Scotty with a knife, a dead woman, and no memory of how he’d come up with either. Really, was it too much to ask for one normal leave? They’d spent the next two hours all but handing Scotty tissues as he got the third degree from Administer Hengist, the planet’s law enforcement supervisor. Of _course_ Scotty didn’t do it, McCoy knew, but it took a little more than a character witness to convince the Argellian government. Spock had been called down as soon as Jaris, the planet’s leader or some such thing, suggested this mystic telepathic mumbo-jumbo séance. Jim, as usual, wanted a second opinion- trusting his First Officer and his own gut before the word of Sybo, the ‘gifted mystic’.

When the lady in question was found dead in Scotty’s arms- stabbed- Spock had his breakthrough. He detected a presence and, with the aid of Sybo’s final words, determined its source. Apparently, the culprit had been Hengist all along.

That accusation didn’t go over well.

Enraged, the Administrator had lunged for his weapon. Scotty, already an emotional wreck, had been pushed to the side with little effort. Jim was a little more stable. He’d tried grappling for the knife, but Hengist was stronger than he looked. Jim got stabbed, long story short, and it was only Spock’s order to give chase that prevented McCoy from rushing to his Captain’s aid.

Jaris and Scotty were well, and the wound wasn’t deep. Hengist was on the loose and could kill again. ‘The needs of the many…’ Blast it all.

So, there they were: plunging through the dark alleyway after a crazed killer. McCoy could barely make out Hengist’s back in the fog, but occasionally the knife would glint in the light of Argelius II’s moon. Spock was legging it like a seasoned track star, but McCoy found himself hard-pressed to keep up. It may or may not have to do with that generous serving of Argellian Bourbon the trio of bar-hoppers had helped themselves to… McCoy was a doctor. He knew when he’d had too much, and this wasn’t it.

Something stopped Spock short at the next turn, and McCoy barreled right into him. The pair went down in a heap; along with whomever Spock had in a death-grip- he could only assume it was Hengist. He rolled off of Spock as quickly as he could. McCoy knew full well how dangerous their quarry was. The Administrator had murdered three people tonight, and wouldn’t shy away from more.

Spock was back up and grappling. McCoy could only watch for a moment as Hengist tried to get the upper hand. Whatever he was, the murderer was strong. Spock seemed to be wavering under the assault. That was when McCoy realized the crux of the thing: Scotty’s memory loss. Maybe this Hengist was at least somewhat telepathic. That could be why Spock was having such a difficult time of it.

McCoy gained his footing. This alley was a dead end. Hengist had nowhere to run, and the Doctor wasn’t just going to stand by and let Spock get stabbed, regardless of how annoying the hobgoblin could be. McCoy took a deep breath and lunged for the knife. He got both his hands around Hengist’s forearm and pulled back. This was enough of a surprise to disengage the Administrator and put Spock out of danger. Unfortunately for McCoy, putting a strong fighter off balance had unexpected consequences. His ankles got all tangled in with Hengist’s flailing feet and they both went down.

He was a Doctor, not a brawler, but he had some sense of self-preservation. Common sense just screamed ‘ _get away from the big knife’_. So, McCoy trusted his instinct and got out of there as quickly as he could. He got his feet back under him, and made for Spock’s position a few feet back down the alley.

Hengist took the opportunity to strike. The blade sliced clean through the Doctor’s calf. McCoy went down in a heap.

“Doctor McCoy!” Spock rushed to his side, having missed the nature of the injury through the thickening fog.

“ _Augh!”_ McCoy shouted, gritting his teeth. “Spock! Get Hengist, I’m-“

He was cut off by the murderer’s shrill cackle. Hengist was up on his feet again. He brandished the knife and spread his arms wide. “You think stone walls can contain me?” The Administrator gestured to the alleyway they had him cornered in. “I have survived for centuries on the fear of the weak! I am more powerful than you can comprehend!” Hengist laughed again, and McCoy was starting to wonder what exactly they’d gotten themselves into.

Spock stood. He began approaching the madman with an even pace. Spock’s arms were out a bit at his sides. Every muscle seemed tensed and ready for battle. This was the sign for the endgame. McCoy sucked a breath through his teeth and pushed himself up using the alley wall. Spock was going to need backup, one way or another. Hengist was too strong for just one of them to try and take on. Injured or not, McCoy was going to do his level best to help bring this maniac down.

“Fools!” The murderer crooned. “I am the terror which cannot be contained! I am Kesla the Feared! I am Beratis the Twisted Blade! I am Redjac, the Nemesis in the Night! All who come before me will cower and despair!”

This guy wasn’t fooling around. Hengist had a strange look in his eyes. McCoy wasn’t a judge, or for that matter a mind reader, but he knew evil when he saw it. Hengist wasn’t playing games with them anymore. One wrong move, and Spock was dead. He was dead too, what with one bad leg and nowhere to go really. They had to end this now, before anyone else got hurt.

McCoy hobbled to Spock’s side. He leaned heavily against the wall but stayed upright. The First Officer turned to examine his companion. Seeing that McCoy was coherent and determined, Spock chose not to comment on his actions. Hengist was their main concern.

“Surrender, Administrator.” Spock’s use of the man’s title - was Hengist even a man, really?- surprised McCoy, but he figured Spock knew what he was doing.

The cackling stopped. Both officers were fixed with a glare hot enough to incinerate dilithium. “Surrender?” Hengist stood still momentarily. It may have just been the adrenaline, but suddenly McCoy was overcome with the feeling that something was about to go _horribly_ wrong. The Administrator sneered. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out… something. McCoy couldn’t see a darned thing in all this fog.

“Spock…” He started, having noticed that the fog in the alleyway was on the move. _Towards Hengist._ “Can… I didn’t know he could do that…” The wisps were gathering behind the Administrator. Slowly, a mass was forming, and McCoy didn’t want to find out what that meant.

“I was not aware of this… ability either, Doctor. The phenomenon is likely being caused by that device.” Spock pointed at the thing in Hengist’s hand, still watching the fog swirl with a critical eye. “And I do not believe he should be allowed to complete this structure.”

McCoy nodded and tried to stand up straighter. He knew he was fading fast and, at this rate, wouldn’t be of any help to Spock after much longer. “Then we gotta do this now. What’s the plan, Spock?”

The First Officer studied the madman and the growing cloud. McCoy couldn’t say what was going on up in that green-blooded brain, but when the temperature in the alley plummeted, Spock’s eyes went wide.

There was a resounding _crack_ \- as if someone had just split a beam longways- at the end of the alley. McCoy’s attention was diverted. The spinning ball of fog had grown to twice Hengist’s height and was now sparking red.

“I didn’t know he could do _that_ either…”

“Now, Doctor! We have to prevent Hengist from activating the singularity!”

“Singularity? Spock, I don’t know how you made that leap, but-“

“It is only logical.” Spock interrupted McCoy to explain. “Hengist is an energy being inhabiting a humanoid host. My tricorder readings confirmed this. He is channeling his natural energy through that device to create this singularity.”

McCoy only got half of that over the loud whirring of the fog, and half of _that_ didn’t make any sense. Regardless, they needed to do something quickly.

“So what do we do, Spock?”

“If you are well enough, Doctor, we should merely have to ‘jump him’, as you humans would phrase it. If we can take him by surprise, I will be able to take control of the device.”

“Works for me!”

Spock started approaching Hengist and the fog from the right. McCoy used the wall to bring himself up on the Administrator’s left. Hengist seemed to be distracted by the forming of the fog. He was focused intently on the last wisps and their integration into the big, scary ball. Spock’s plan might actually work, if Hengist just kept his eyes on the fog. They were closing in. Just a few more steps and they’d have him.

“Now, Doctor!”

McCoy put all his energy into a running tackle. He and Spock timed the thing perfectly. Hengist, absorbed in his fog ball, didn’t see them coming.

But, then again, neither of the Starfleet officers could’ve predicted what happened next.

The fog went green. McCoy saw the glint of delight in Hengist’s eyes before he and Spock did a two-man imitation of a bulldozer. The three of them fell backwards into the ball of fog. McCoy, feeling less than stellar already, was suddenly overcome with a tingling sensation. It spread from the back of his neck, all the way down to his toes.

That was when he realized they were still falling.

“Spock!” McCoy yelled over the rushing wind.

“Doctor! Hold on! Do not let go!” He met Spock’s eye over Hengist’s shoulder. The Vulcan looked surprised, if McCoy could call it that. They were still dropping, and Hengist seemed to have gone stiff. The device forgotten, McCoy held on for all he was worth. He felt Spock’s hand on his arm, keeping an extra hold as well and sandwiching Hengist between them.

The fog changed again. They were falling faster, and the electricity sparking around them turned white. Spock shouted something, but his words were lost in the roaring wind. McCoy was forced to shut his eyes when the sparks grew bright enough to blind. In the middle of it all, Hengist started to cackle. His laughter drowned out the wind, the lightning, and the rushing air.

Suddenly, the glow vanished in a blaze of heat. McCoy felt his leg again. The wound on his calf ached in the dry heat. It was like a giant oven. The burning fog beat around them, and then dissipated, leaving the trio in utter darkness. McCoy felt the ground beneath his feet. He was shaking. The grip he had on Hengist failed, and the Doctor dropped. That eerie laugh filled the air. It was the last thing he heard before blacking out.

No, shore leave wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

* * *

 

 

It was warm. Cozy, even. Doctor McCoy was slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. Whatever he was laying on was soft. There were blankets, too. He was warm.

Somebody draped a cool towel over his forehead. He could hear murmurs. It was nice, but there was something… something just _off_ that he couldn’t quite place. The air was warm. The blankets were soft. He shifted.

 _There!_ The pain brought him all the way awake. It was intense, searing, as if somebody’d poured rubbing alcohol all over it and hadn’t bothered with a painkiller. McCoy’s eyes flew open. The room he was in was blurry at first, but it soon cleared. A candle flickered close to his head. There were some _really_ old-fashioned lamps on the walls, a full set of wooden furniture, and a small stove-like thing in the corner.

Spock was sitting in a chair next to him.

“S-… Spock…” McCoy tried. He was beyond confused. Nothing in here looked like anything he was familiar with. _Last thing I remember is… the alley. Hengist!_

“Spock, where’s-”

“Hush, Doctor. Not now.” Spock hissed. The Vulcan cast a glance at the doorway, obviously wary of something. “I will explain everything when I am able, but for now you must trust me. Do not say anything. There is a high risk that we could violate the Prime Directive and alter the course of history.”

McCoy blinked. “We _what?”_

The door opened a crack. A head appeared in the space and looked questioningly at Spock. It was then that McCoy noticed the bandage wrapped around Spock’s forehead.

“Agent Sherrinford, is everything alright?”

 _Sherrinford?_ McCoy squinted in the dim light, trying to identify the figure in the doorway. _Why does that sound familiar? Sherrinf- Oh no. Oh, he didn’t-_

“Everything is fine, thank you. My colleague was merely attempting to ascertain our circumstances. He is understandably disoriented.”

McCoy tried sitting up so he could see their visitor more clearly. The figure in the door appeared to be a younger man with dark hair and a fairly square head. He had a well-groomed moustache and his hair was parted and slicked to one side. The man looked a little shy of thirty, with a neat suit and neutral expression giving him a more mature look.

“Oh. I see.” He nudged the door open further. McCoy could see that he was carrying a tray. “The landlady was fairly alarmed, but when I explained your circumstances, she calmed considerably. She even offered to make tea…”

“Thank you, doctor. I shall convey my gratitude to the lady when I next encounter her.” Spock took the tea tray from the young man’s hands and set it down on the bedside table. He turned back to McCoy with a raised eyebrow. “Now, Doctor McCoy, it would not be wise to attempt any sudden movement in your condition.”

Still fairly stunned, McCoy just started back at Spock. “What in blazes is goin’ on here? Who’s he, and uh… where exactly are we?”

Spock continued staring at him with that odd expression. “Do try to relax, Doctor McCoy. Our host has graciously offered his spare room for your recovery.”

Whatever was going on here, it was stranger than anything he’d had to do yet on this crazy five-year-mission of theirs. _We’re on the razor edge of breaking the Prime Directive, Spock’s acting all cryptic, and there’s still a murderer on the loose. Best just play along with whatever the hobgoblin’s doing. But really, Spock? Sherrinford?_

“Oh. Uh, thanks. But, recovery from what? Last thing I remember was Hengist stabbin’ me in the alley. How’d we end up here?”

Spock turned to their host. “It appears that my colleague received a stronger blow to the head than I had originally supposed. Would you care for a cup of this tea? It may take some time to remind him of our circumstances, depending on the severity of his injury.”

The young man nodded eagerly. _Whatever this story is,_ McCoy supposed, _This fella is pretty excited to hear it. What kind of yarn did Spock spin to get us here in the first place? This I gotta hear._

Spock passed over the cup and met McCoy’s expectant gaze. It seemed as if Spock was trying to convey some silent message with his eyes. McCoy wasn’t quite receiving, but he had his ears open for their cover story.

“I will start from the beginning. Tell me if you begin remembering the relevant details.” Spock inclined his head significantly. McCoy nodded back and gestured for him to continue. “Very well. It is clear that you remember Hengist, so I will not go into great detail about our investigations into the murders back in Texas, or the circumstances under which we met at the detective agency in Chicago.”

“Of course, _Agent_ Sherrinford.” That much made sense. _So, Spock’s posing as a detective. We’re investigating murders, and Hengist is our prime suspect. Now, explain away those ears, hobgoblin._

“Indeed. You might recall the voyage to England, our leads in tracking Hengist, and the informant that knew he was moving toward London.” The emphasis in Spock’s phrasing wasn’t lost on McCoy. With each word, his hopes sank a little bit deeper. Slowly, the pieces were coming together, and McCoy figured they weren’t going to make a pretty picture.

“We were testing the night camouflage fabrics of my own design when Hengist appeared in the alley as expected. We attempted to restrain him, but he managed to escape, but not before slashing your leg and rendering you unconscious. It is fortunate that you did not meet the same fate as our informant. Hengist slit his throat before fleeing the alleyway.”

“Wait- our informant? Hengist killed this man? Where… What…?” McCoy struggled with the new information. He didn’t have enough to tie all these frayed ends together. The tale Spock was spinning turned out more convoluted than he could keep up with.

Spock turned back to their host. “Perhaps we should allow Doctor McCoy to rest. It has been a… most tiresome evening.”

The young man stood, leaving his teacup on the coffee table. “Oh. Of course, of course. Will you need anything? There is only the one bed and…”

“I thank you for your concern, but I will not require sleep this evening. I have much to consider, and then there is the matter of Doctor McCoy’s health to attend to.”

“Very well. If his condition worsens, I will be in the next room. I am not a terribly heavy sleeper, and if you require any assistance a knock or two will likely rouse me.”

“Thank you, doctor. Good evening.”

The young man left with a ‘good evening’ of his own. As soon as the door clicked shut, McCoy leaned back against the headboard. The bed was little more than a cot, but right then he was grateful for a little stability.

“London. England.” He breathed, running a hand over his face. “Dare I ask _when_ this is?”

Spock kept his eyes trained on McCoy. It may have gotten their host to leave, but Spock’s concerns for the Doctor’s health could prove to be more justified than he’d expected.

“Given the technology, manner of dress, and architecture, I would say approximately 1880, but the newspaper that our host left behind provides a more exact answer.” Spock crossed to the coffee table. He gathered up the paper and returned to the bedside. “Disaster at Clifton Hall Colliery- Salford reels at the deaths of 178 men and boys… This is the evening paper, dated June 19th, 1885.’ There is your answer.”

1885\. It hit him like a falling shuttlecraft. _We’re stuck in Earth’s ancient past… Before electric lights, before automobiles, before most antibiotics… Oh, I’d give a lot to see the hospital. Probably needles and sutures…_

Spock’s hand on his shoulder shook him from this dark train of thought. “Doctor McCoy?” The Vulcan looked frustratingly calm about all of this.

“1885, Spock. What’re we supposed to do? And how’d you get that guy to buy the story about us being detectives?”

“Not ‘us’ exactly, Doctor. I believe I told our host that you are a coroner.”

“Ok. Great, peachy. Any other pertinent details to share with me? Some fake relatives I should know about? Pretend identical twins?” McCoy seethed. He knew it wasn’t Spock he was upset with but, well, it felt _good_ to vent. “We’ve got to get our story straight. Because don’t you know one slip up could change the course of history! One wrong move and everything we’ve ever known or loved is gone. So, please, do share the riveting tale of our fake selves’ journey, _Agent Sherrinford._ ”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to calm down. It didn’t help much that the room was still fuzzy. McCoy grabbed a teacup from the bedside table. “How about you start talkin’.”

Spock did that not-a-sigh-because-sighing-is-an-emotional-response exhale thing he did. The Vulcan picked up a teacup for himself and began.

“When we attempted to subdue Hengist, we were too late to stop him from activating his device. Whatever technology he possesses is powerful enough to allow a transposition through space as well as time. This is how we ended up on the Earth of 400 years ago instead of Argelius II.” Spock paused to sip at his tea. McCoy took a drink break as well. The stuff wasn’t half bad. “When we arrived in the London alleyway,” Spock continued, “you and I were both somewhat disoriented from the sudden change. Hengist broke free and proceeded to the edge of the alleyway. You had succumbed to your injury by this time, and as I attended to you, Hengist found and killed a… criminally inclined man in the back of the alley.”

“The… the guy you said was our informant?”

“Precisely, Doctor.”

McCoy nodded. “How’d you know he was ‘criminally inclined’?”

“Because of this.” Spock reached under the bed and lifted a medium-sized suitcase. McCoy took in the gold-leaf designs and quality leatherwork. It was really shocking seeing something so obviously antiquated in nearly new condition.

“He had that with him? Who’s to say it wasn’t his?”

Spock set the suitcase back down before answering. “It would seem prejudiced in our time to judge a man by his appearance, but the man in question was decidedly less… clean than the average citizen, even in this time period. Also, he carried a knife and attempted to use it on Hengist before he was murdered.”

“Fair enough. So, we have this stolen suitcase. Does that guy…” McCoy gestured to the door, “Does he know about it?”

Spock shook his head. “Negative, Doctor. He is under the impression that it is mine. It is likely that the original owner will assume it lost. Its contents may be useful to us.”

“You mean like clothes and things?” McCoy ventured. “So we can blend in with the locals.”

“Precisely. Now, if I may…?”

“Go on ahead.” McCoy sat back and cradled the teacup with his fingers. In addition to being nice and warm, it was helping him cool off after that tirade.

“Thank you. When the man in the alley was attacked, I went to offer my assistance, only to find him dead. I saw the suitcase and conjectured that there might be something of use inside. I returned to your side and remembered the emergency supplies you often carry in your hip-pouch.”

“The bandages.”

“Yes. I wrapped your wound and then implemented my disguise. It was at that time that our host was walking past the alley. I requested medical assistance. Fortunately, the young man is a doctor, and he was willing to ‘put us up’ for the night in his rooms. A law enforcement official of some sort arrived on the scene, and while our host was attending to you I… placed a suggestion in the officer’s mind. He will not seek us out for questioning. Our host helped me to carry you up the stairs and into his spare room.”

McCoy drained his cup and set it on the tray. “This is the part where you swindled our guy with tales about the Wild, Wild West?”

Spock’s expression changed from neutral complacency to something more like ‘affronted fencepost’. “I did not ‘swindle’ anyone, Doctor. In an effort to keep the Prime Directive, I told the doctor a version of events that would encourage sentiments of ethical and moral responsibility. I explained that we were law enforcement, and that Hengist was wanted for several murders.”

“What’s the part about me being from Texas and that business with Chicago?”

“I am quite familiar with the prominent crimes and unsolved cases during this era. I drew from my knowledge of a series of murders in Austin, Texas during this year. It is a possibility that law enforcement officials would still be searching for the culprit. I merely used the details from that case to our advantage. Our host believes me to be one James Sherrinford of a detective agency in Chicago, and you to be Doctor Leonard McCoy- a coroner from Austin who will be able to identify our culprit. That is the story he will be prepared for you to corroborate.”

McCoy stared blankly for a second. “Pardon my asking, but how _do_ you know so much about murders committed in 1885 and thereabouts? How exactly?”

“My mother was an… avid Sherlock Holmes fan. She had the entire original collection in our home library on Vulcan, as well as several critically acclaimed novels written by other authors outside the original canon. One of her favorites was ‘ _Sheriff Holmes and the Serving Girl Murders’_ by Hilda Denning, written in 2145. It detailed Holmes’ investigation into the unsolved serial murders which I described to you earlier. Our host will likely not know the particulars of the case, and even if he does, law enforcement agencies do not have the habit of making their investigative moves public.”

“Alright, alright.” McCoy accepted. “So I’m from the South, you’re a detective, and we’re looking for a guy who killed a bunch of young women. That’s… actually not too far from the truth. Well, he bought it either-…” Another question buzzed in the back of McCoy’s mind and he tried to grasp it. Suddenly, it clicked. “And that’s another thing. You keep saying ‘our host’ and ‘the doctor’. Don’t you know this guy’s name, what after crashing his house and dragging your unconscious pal into his spare room? No ‘Hi, how are ya, I’m Spock and this is my sack of potatoes, McCoy’?”

Spock’s gaze dropped to the floor. It meandered over to the coffee table, and then came to rest on the ceiling.

“Out with it. Who is he?”

“Our host, after helping me carry you up the stairs, introduced himself to me. He is a doctor of some skill, but as a practitioner he has not had much luck.”

“ _His name_ , Spock.”

Spock did the not-sigh. “His name, Doctor, is Arthur Conan Doyle.”

* * *

 

The morning sun had yet to shine more than a vaguely orange glow through the cloud cover. Spock had kept one lantern on all night. He needed to think, to plan, to prepare for when he next met Hengist. Having taken up a position on the room’s sofa, Spock found himself at the end of a long night of meditation. Doctor McCoy’s gentle snoring had dissolved into unimportant background noise. Only the light had changed as Spock sat, unmoving and deep in thought.

At one point, he had forced the lock on the suitcase and examined its contents. There were three sets of clothes and a coat, as well as three pairs of shoes, one pair of slippers, two soft caps, and the previous owner’s pocket watch. _Only one article out of several that this man was moving._ Spock decided. _Otherwise, there would be additional supplies, such as a razor or two or three pairs of socks. However, as these are the only clothes in this case, the rest are likely still in the original owner’s possession._

Spock took the suits and laid them out on the coffee table. He placed the shoes on the chair and draped the coat over the armrest. Out of a desire to be thorough, Spock examined the one sleeve and lining of the suitcase. Nothing was to be found in the sleeve besides a receipt and some loose string. Meticulously, Spock examined the case’s lining. A small slit in the fabric caught his attention. The damage was largely inconsequential, and would have been overlooked by a less keen observer. Spock, however, was going to pursue every avenue to its end.

He crossed over to the bedside table. McCoy was still fast asleep, one arm pushed up under his pillow, the other clutching the sheet tightly across his shoulders. Careful not to disturb his colleague, Spock slid the bedside table drawer open slowly. The wood made hardly a rustle and McCoy didn’t stir. He examined the drawer’s contents and, to his satisfaction, found a letter opener.

Returning to the suitcase, Spock slid the letter opener into the gap in the fabric. Carefully, he sliced along the lining and cut a suitably sized section away from the wall of the case. The fabric flopped over, revealing a space between the lining and the leather of the case. Spock turned the letter opener over in his hand. He pressed the tip down over the lining and reached into the opening. Immediately, he noticed a loose panel in the leather.

 _Fascinating,_ Spock realized, _The most easily recovered item would be the case itself, as it is the most identifiable article and least marketable for common thieves. A compartment such as this would likely go unnoticed. Upon recovery of the case, the owner could retrieve any valuable item hidden within the lining. A most ingenious idea. Unfortunately for the case’s owner, their adversary is no ‘common thief’._

Still pinning the flap open, Spock maneuvered his fingers around the edge of the panel and pulled it back. The leather moved without much effort, and Spock’s efforts were rewarded. He withdrew his prize from the lining. At first, the roll composed of small pieces of paper seemed unusual and a little disappointing, but then Spock remembered when and where they were. _These slips of paper are most likely the region’s currency. This will prove useful if we are to navigate the city in search of Hengist._

That had been around midnight. Now, Spock was meditating on the sofa. Outside, the city was awakening for the morning’s business. Inside, all was silent. Someone in the street called out loudly. Spock’s attention was momentarily diverted. He glanced at the window, which was becoming more yellow and less blue.

The noise had disturbed others as well. In addition to the new commotion in the street, one of the blankets on the bed shifted. Or rather, the bed’s occupant was finally waking up. Doctor McCoy rolled onto his other side, stretched a leg, and then stilled.

All of the sudden, McCoy shot straight up off the mattress. Spock, startled at the Doctor’s activity, froze on the sofa. McCoy’s gaze whipped around the room until his eyes finally came to rest on Spock. He relaxed visibly.

“So it wasn’t a dream.”

He could comment on the Doctor’s never-failing lack of specification, but Spock understood the experience. “No, indeed, Doctor. I trust you rested well?”

McCoy crumpled the sheet to one side and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, actually. Slept like a rock. I guess whiskey straight to the bloodstream will do that to ya… Speaking of-” He pushed his legs off the side of the bed. “I’m wondering what kind of damage Hengist did.”

Spock realized McCoy’s intention too late. The Doctor was already wobbling against the bedside table for support when he arrived at his colleague’s side. A steadying hand was all McCoy needed.

“Thanks. Oof…” McCoy held Spock’s shoulder for support while the pair made their way to the coffee table. “I didn’t quite think that one through. The chair’s fine. Ah. Thanks, Spock. Looks like I’ll probably have to seal it up… Sew it up- the way things’re looking right now. Needles and sutures…”

McCoy leaned forward in the chair and rolled back his pant leg. Spock crossed to the suitcase and retrieved the spare bandages from where he’d stashed them. By the time he returned, McCoy was already unraveling the previous evening’s repairs.

“Yep. Needle ‘n thread it is. Got any on hand, Spock? Or, since y’all are such good buddies, you should ask your other doctor friend.”

Spock pursed his lips. After he had revealed their host’s identity to McCoy, things had gone rapidly downhill between himself and the Doctor. Hard pressed to keep his voice down, McCoy had ceased talking to him entirely, instead slamming his head into the pillow and faking sleep until sometime later, when a gentle snoring sound broke the frosty silence. Now that the Doctor was awake, Spock was sure they would have more… vocal disagreements.

“A valid suggestion, Doctor. As it is morning, I believe your idea is appropriate.” Spock returned to the suitcase and brought the whole thing back to the coffee table. “But first, we should make an effort to blend in. Make your selection. As they are all the same size, I do not see a significant difference between the suits, although I recognize the strong emotion that humans can attach to preference.”

McCoy scowled at the comment, but looked over each suit anyway. “I’ll take the grey one.” He decided and snatched up his choice. “You take either of the browns, I guess. Preferences, right?” The Doctor glanced around the room once before spotting the door to the washroom. It was logical, as it was not the door Doctor Doyle had entered through previously. “I’m gonna go change. Don’t worry. I think I can make it to the door on my own. It’s just getting’ used to the weight.” McCoy stood slowly, testing his leg, before hobbling off toward the door. He was right. It was the washroom. Score.

Spock made his choice of suits quickly. The sound of McCoy’s grumbling could be heard through the door. _No doubt a lamentation at the state of this century’s plumbing. Or, perhaps it is a commentary on sanitation._ He decided to take this opportunity to get changed. During his time on the _Enterprise_ , he’d had his fair share of unusual away missions. Many of these required some sort of a costume change. Spock knew his way in and around complicated articles of clothing. In a few minutes, he had his shirt, slacks, collar, and tie all but in order. The clothes did not fit perfectly, namely the too-narrow shoulders of the shirt and wide waist of the pants, but Spock was managing.

McCoy chose that moment to reappear, slightly disheveled and angry.

“Spock, I can’t figure this blasted thing out.”

The Doctor stood in the door with his pants on, shirt buttoned, and collar hopelessly askew. Spock noticed immediately that it was on backwards. _Perhaps that is the crux of the Doctor’s troubles._

“Allow me to show you, Doctor. It is quite simple.”

More grumbling. McCoy watched as Spock took off and then reassembled his collar. It took a few tries, but eventually the article was menaced into place. The Doctor fell back into his seat. “This century is going to be a beating, isn’t it? Haven’t been here half a day and we’ve already managed to get into some hot water.”

“Doctor?”

McCoy rubbed his temples. “Don’t you see? Of all the people we could’ve run into, you had to pick Arthur Conan Doyle. Sure, it’s not like his work goes on to inspire a whole career field or anything. I mean, I know they had some semblance of forensic investigation, but nothing major until _after_ Holmes. We screw this up, Spock, and it’s over. Done. Forget the Prime Directive, if we so much as sneeze wrong, we could wipe out the entire basis of the modern criminal justice system.”

“It is inaccurate to say ‘the entire basis’ of Earth’s law enforcement system, Doctor, as forensic investigation consists of only a small part of…” He caught the glare and diverted the course of his statement. “As long as we are able to apprehend Hengist quickly, I see little possibility for significant interference. Our goal should be to take Hengist back to our time with minimal interaction with events as they exist in this time.”

“Reasonable. Here’s a thought- how the heck are we s’posed to do that?” McCoy’s aggravated gesture ended in a smack to his knee. The knee on his injured leg. His regret was made plain on his face.

“I do not know.” Spock clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at the carpet. It was an unassuming rug, serving now to focus his thoughts. “I hypothesize that the act of transporting multiple beings across time and space would consume a considerable amount of energy. It stands to reason that an energy being would be weakened by the effort, especially on a transport of such a large scale. Factoring in the distance from Earth to Argelius II and the compensation for three beings…” Spock paused to make his calculations. McCoy looked on from the chair.

“He’s probably tuckered out, is what you’re saying.”

“The energy drain would explain the fatigue I experienced shortly after the transport, as well as the reason why you f-”

“Say ‘fainted’ and I’ll strangle you with that collar.”

“…became unconscious. Hengist is likely attempting to either rest or otherwise regenerate some of his energy. If we can locate a place where Hengist could accomplish either of these things…”

“Then we can probably just grab Hengist and _make him_ take us back to the future.” McCoy snapped his fingers. They had some semblance of a plan, which is a lot farther than he thought they’d be at this point in the disaster.

“Correct. We must make some inquiries… But first, I believe I will pay Doctor Doyle a visit. You are in need of some medical assistance.”

Doyle was up and willing to help suture McCoy’s leg. It was the CMO himself who made things difficult.

“You’re sure this thing is… sanitary, doctor?” McCoy took the needle between his fingers. He had his leg propped up on the coffee table; pant leg rolled past the knee and towels ready and waiting in Spock’s arms.

“Of course it is, Doctor McCoy. I clean all of my needles myself. “ Doyle looked askance at the pair as if to say, ‘what kind of doctor do you take me for?’.

McCoy only nodded, knowing that as bad as this was about to be, it was as good as it was going to get. He braced his foot against the edge of the table, took a deep breath, and got to work. The cut wasn’t too deep, but it was enough for a good couple of stitches. Enough that he’d accepted a shot of whiskey before the procedure.

Spock had placed the tea tray over the carpet to prevent any unnecessary damage. He did not wish to compensate for the rug. Luckily for everyone, McCoy was a quick hand with the needle. In a matter of minutes, his calf was stitched, cleaned and bandaged once more. The Doctor accepted another shot of whiskey.

“That could’ve been a lot worse.” McCoy commented. “We could’a been under fire, sittin’ in the back of a sh-…aky… stagecoach.”

“Indeed, Doctor. Your geographical region is rampant with such unfortunate occurrences, unlike Chicago, which has a distinctly more metropolitan criminal population.”

“No sh…errinford. You’re right. We could be in the back of a coach bouncin’ along uh… cobblestones while your… Chicago gangsters shot at us.”

They fell silent as McCoy mopped up the table. Doctor Doyle had been listening attentively.

“Have you witnessed many shootouts, Doctor McCoy?”

McCoy placed the soiled towel on the tea tray. He bit his lip, searching for a response that wouldn’t alter all of Earth’s history.

“Uh, no. Not really. I’m a uh… coroner. I just see the fallout- I mean the aftermath! I see the bodies after the shootings. After they’ve been shot and… deceased.”

Doyle nodded politely, but his interest in McCoy had clearly waned. He turned to Spock. If it was in the Vulcan nature to display emotion, it would be accurate to say that it was Spock’s turn to ‘sweat bullets’.

“Tell me, Agent Sherrinford, what is it like to operate out of an agency in one of the most fascinatingly diverse criminal populations in modern history?”

Spock blinked. He paused for a long moment before responding. “As you have said, there is a remarkable amount of criminal activity. There is too much to account for in a brief summation, but I will inform you that the city itself offers as many criminal curiosities as an investigative mind could possibly desire.”

Doyle’s face glowed with interest. McCoy had to stop himself from swearing. They were supposed to interact as little as was possible. _I guess that’s too much for a Holmes geek as big as this one. First Sherrinford, then- you know what? Chicago’s another direct reference. How does he keep worming these in? Is he trying to cause trouble?_

“Ahem, Agent Sherrinford.” McCoy cleared his throat. “We have a busy day ahead of us. Did you manage to get the… tip from the informant before Hengist attacked us?”

Spock straightened. “I did not, Doctor. However, if we merely apply logic to our circumstances, we will be able to predict his most likely course of action.” He paced to the other side of the table and took a brown suit jacket from the stack. “Properly placed inquiries will lead us to our man. Doctor, if you are feeling quite well, we can proceed with our investigation at once.”

“At once?” Doyle stood after Spock. “You mean you already have an idea of where this Hengist will have gone?”

“It will not take long to form one. But, we must first examine the alley for leads. Are you ready, Doctor McCoy?”

“Sure. Great. Whatever. Actually… is there an extra cane or something lying around?”

\-----

The sun was up and the alley was empty. Spock crouched over a section of stonework. Apparently, the police had finished their investigation the night before. Or, at least, they hadn’t come around to check the alley this morning.

He had identified McCoy’s blood from the night before, as well as the spot where Hengist had killed their ‘informant’. The murderer had been in a hurry to get away. Spock was going through various possibilities in his head. If Hengist had intended to return to this time as soon as he had committed the murders on Argelius II, then he may have had some sort of escape planned out upon his arrival here.

While Spock was combing the alleyway for clues, Doctor McCoy leaned to rest against the wall. It was all he could do not to slap the ears right off his shipmate. According to fashion, manners, or whatever- he didn’t care in the slightest- everyone in this time period wore hats outside, pretty much. Luckily for them, Spock had produced those two cloth caps from his suitcase. McCoy was starting to wonder if the previous owner had been Mary Poppins, when he noticed something about the caps.

_Oh no. You’ve got to be kidding me._

Spock was shuffling around the alley in a deerstalker, the only cap of the two that fit over his ears. McCoy had taken the flat cap with a grimace. Things were only getting worse as the day wore on, and it was hardly daybreak. Of _course_ Doctor Doyle had come along. He’d _insisted_ on coming along. McCoy was starting to wonder if he’d need to hypo the annoyingly important literary figure if things progressed much farther.

“Doctor McCoy, I believe I have found something.”

McCoy pushed off the wall and limped over to Spock. He was grateful for the extra cane.

“What is your opinion of this?” Spock had a slip of paper between two of his fingers. McCoy took the paper and examined it. At first glance, it looked like an inconsequential newspaper article. Then, he noticed how it was trimmed- the top and bottom portions were cut off mid-sentence. He flipped the paper.

“ _Murder most fowl—Constables discover the body of a young woman outside well known East End tavern…_ ” McCoy looked at Spock quizzically. “Hengist?”

Spock nodded. “I hypothesize so. The paper appears to be…” He lowered his voice. “Fairly ancient. I would estimate it was published during this period in history, and that Hengist brought it back here. It is likely an important occurrence, for him to hold onto the article for so long.”

“Yeah, looks like it.” McCoy murmured. “It doesn’t have the address on it, though, just vague descriptions. If only we knew which specific-…”

Spock’s gaze had wandered to the end of the alley. McCoy followed his line of sight to Doctor Doyle.

“No.”

“He is knowledgeable about both this period of time and the terrain. It is only logical.”

“I said no. We’re cutting it _way_ too close as it is. Look at you. You’re practically Holmes’ spitting image.”

Spock returned McCoy’s hard look. “Shall I point out the remarkable similarities between your current persona and Doctor Watson? You are the very image of Holmes’ foil- assisting with investigations, requiring clarifications on points of interest, not to mention the limp-”

“Fine!” He huffed. “Ok. Sure, Spock, I get it, we just-”

“Gentlemen? Have you found something of interest?”

McCoy froze. _Doyle._ When had he gotten so darned _close_? The Doctor turned on their unexpected guest. _How much did he overhear?_

Spock played it off cool, thankfully. “We may have discovered one of our suspect’s potential hideouts. If you were to guess, what would you say the most popular tavern in the East End is?”

Doyle seemed to be taken aback by this question. “Really, Agent Sherrinford. That’s quite the question!”

McCoy and Spock exchanged glances.

“Uh. Well, do you know? Neither of us has ever been to London before, so we were hoping you’d have some idea.”

Doyle’s frown became less hostile, more confused. “You… I see. You clearly do not understand. Having never visited London before… Well. The East End boasts many very… disreputable establishments.”

“The perfect hiding spot for Hengist, then.” Spock stood and brushed off his trousers. “Please, Doctor, we will make no assumptions based on your knowledge or lack thereof regarding the East End. A detective makes it his business to be familiar with even the most… disreputable areas of his city.”

Doyle seemed mollified. “Well, I have only ever heard of two establishments that would fit that description, and I’m only here for a few weeks on business. Anyhow. There’s the place near the docks where an old friend of mine- a records keeper for one of the companies- recommends if I ever find myself so far east of London. The other is Trelane’s, on the very edge of the district. It is the closest of the two.”

Spock nodded. “Excellent. We shall begin with Trelane’s, and then make our way to the docks. Doctor McCoy, will you be able to make the journey?”

“Of course, S-Sherrinford.” He caught himself. It had almost been ‘Spock’. They couldn’t afford a slip like that. Their story was already paper thin, no need to start shooting holes in it, too.

“Then we will be on our way. Doctor Doyle, what is the best way to proceed?”

“Why, we’ll have to take a cab, but I doubt whether the tavern will be open at this hour. And I have an engagement soon… So I-”

“Thank you for your help, Doctor. My colleague and I will proceed to investigate this Trelane’s. We will need your assistance with the second location, but you are free to go about your business until then.”

“Oh.” Doyle seemed disappointed that they were going on without him. “Well. You are quite welcome, Agent Sherrinford. I suppose I will be on my way. Good morning, gentlemen.”

\--------

Between the two of them, Spock and McCoy figured out their currency crisis. They paid the cab driver and took to the sidewalk across from Trelane’s. The street wasn’t too active at this time in the morning. Some children skittered back and forth from the alleyways, a dog sniffed at a spot on the sooty sidewalk, a man in a plaid cap gave them the side-eye.

The tavern itself was closed for the daytime hours, though the sign in the window advertised that it would be open around five. Spock leaned up to one of the windows and cast a glance inside. The chairs and tables stood empty and cleaned. No one stirred inside.

“What’re we gonna do? They’re closed, Doyle’s at his meeting or whatever, and we don’t know where we are or what we’re doing?” McCoy leaned up against the side of the building. They seemed to be stuck. It had been doable, this morning. _Get up, sew your leg, go catch a murderer. Easy as pie. At least Spock seems to be having fun. And he’s not exactly clueless about this blending in thing._

“We shall have to inquire in the area.” Spock surveyed the street, hesitated, and crossed over to a group of children playing in the mouth of an alley. McCoy sighed, accepted his fate, and trudged after Spock.

“Pardon me…” Spock started. The kids stopped everything. One of them went so far as to take a step back. McCoy sighed. He’d had enough experience in pediatrics to know where this was going. Spock’s whole figure was imposing. From head to toe, he radiated this intimidating vibe that mere mortals would never get used to. McCoy limped over to intervene.

“How are y’all doing?” McCoy leaned on his cane and smiled warmly. No need to startle the kids with scary eyebrows.

“Why’s your leg like that?” A tiny boy pointed to the cane.

McCoy smirked. He knew exactly how to play this one.

“I got stabbed,” He replied, the storyteller’s edge creeping into his voice, “Chasing a murderer.”

One of the littler ones gasped, but he had their full attention. He surveyed the group, five or six boys and girls, who were eyeing him with a mixture of awe and exhilaration.

“I don’ believe it.” A girl challenged.

“I’ll prove it.” McCoy grabbed the knee of his trousers and exposed the bandage. “And my friend here can tell you. Chasing a murderer, we were. Still are. You kids wanna help us get him?”

A couple of heads bobbed. The tiny boy piped up again. “Are you both ‘mericans?”

“That we are. I’m from the Wild West, a US Marshall. And he’s a big-shot detective from Chicago. He fights crime bosses and smugglers in the big city, while I hunt down desperados in the frontier towns.”

Spock’s eyebrows had risen with the children’s. McCoy was deep in it now; he just had to make it stick.

“So, if you kids can help us find the guy, we’d be mighty grateful. There might even be a reward in it, seein’ how this guy’s wanted: dead or alive!”

McCoy paused to let their imaginations run wild. Surely, they’d heard sensational stories about the American West- cowboys and gunfights at the very least.

“How does he look like?” Another little girl asked.

“He’s uh… Agent Sherrinford here has a superior memory for faces, that’s how he can track down criminals in the dangerous streets of Chicago. Tell ‘em what our man looks like, Agent.”

Spock glanced at McCoy, impressed at his ability to smooth-talk the kids. “Our ‘man’ goes by Hengist. He is shorter than… the Marshall, approximately five-foot, four-inches. He has a round face and is likely wearing an unusual dark-colored suit.”

“He’s a pretty short guy. With kind of a squeaky voice. Seen him around?”

The kids shuffled a bit before huddling together. McCoy went so far as to wink at Spock before leaning forward to hear their verdict.

“Jackie and Dan saw ‘im around the tavern last night, but he ain’t been around since.” The outspoken girl gave them the rundown. “He was with a couple of other men, taller ones, rough lookin’ types you see ‘round the docks.”

“Why, thank you, little miss. Thank you all.” McCoy beamed at the kids. He was glad they’d finally got a lead. “Agent Sherrinford, how about that reward? These kids would make mighty fine deputies, don’t’cha think?”

“Indeed, Marshall. You have been most valuable assistants. Thank you for your cooperation.” Spock passed around some coins and most of the kids took off. The littlest girl wobbled up to McCoy and tugged on his pant leg. He hitched the cane in the crook of his arm and bent down the best he could.

“The detective man talks real funny. Do all the people in Chicago like him? He’s real scary.” The last was whispered so low McCoy could hardly hear.

McCoy’s grin widened. He leaned in confidentially. “Now listen here, young lady, he’s a bona-fide private eye, not any like him in the whole world. He talks real proper and keeps so organized that they call him the machine man.”

Her eyes got huge. The little girl was hanging on McCoy’s every word.

“That’s right. And you know well-oiled machines hardly ever break down. That’s what he does too. Keeps goin’ and goin’ until he gets his man. Never stops keepin’ the city safe. So if you’re ever lyin’ awake at night feelin’ nervous, just know that he’s out there scarin’ the bad guys. He should be scary for them, not for lil’ ol’ you.” McCoy tapped her nose with one finger. She giggled. “Now get along. I’m sure your pals are waitin’ for you.”

The child took off after her playmates and McCoy got back to his feet. Spock was giving him that I’m-not-annoyed-because-that-is-illogical look.

“The machine man, Doctor?”

McCoy raised an eyebrow. “Well now, maybe you’ll strike fear into the heart of ne’er-do-wells everywhere.”

“If only your strategy applied to Hengist. It seems that he is in the business inspiring fear, not falling victim to it.” Spock looked down the street. Things were picking up as the lunch hour approached. “We have a lead. We should examine the area surrounding the tavern, and then return to Doctor Doyle’s lodgings.”

“Alright. Let’s get started.”

They combed the back alleys surrounding Trelane’s. McCoy examined the dark corners, looking for Hengist’s suit or other discarded articles, but came up short. When he met Spock in front of the tavern, he found they’d both come up empty handed.

“I suppose we’d better catch a cab back to Doyle’s now, huh?” McCoy ventured. He looked back at Trelane’s. The tavern seemed a lot less ominous now that they’d been combing around it for such a long time. “He’ll probably be chompin’ at the bit to get some detective style ‘legwork’ in. I bet he’s madder than a wet hen that he missed this little romp through the garbage.”

McCoy sighed. It wouldn’t hurt to try the place down by the docks. Who knows? Just ‘cause the kids had seen a man fitting Hengist’s description here didn’t mean that this was _the_ tavern. That, and they hadn’t found a sign of Hengist here either.

Still facing Spock and the tavern, McCoy stepped to the curb and raised a hand for a cab. The traffic was busy enough that somebody’d stop for him before too long.

_“Doctor McCoy!”_

Spock’s shout drew his attention. He looked just in time to see the First Officer’s flying tackle. McCoy hit the pavement hard. He could hear a rumbling noise over the ringing in his ears, but his view was obscured by Spock’s torso.

“Spock…” He gasped. Spock backed off to his side and helped him to sit up. “What the Sam Hill was that about?” McCoy coughed. He’d landed awkwardly.

Spock was looking down the street. One of the horse-drawn cabs was heading off at a remarkable pace.

“You were almost hit, Doctor, I believe intentionally. It was a near miss, and if it had not been for my intervention, the driver would not have missed by any margin.”

“What?” McCoy stared at the cab, which was almost lost in the other traffic. “Did you see who was driving?”

Spock stood, retrieved the Doctor’s cane, and offered him a hand up. “I did not. I was more concerned with the immediate danger than the possible ramifications.”

“That’s alright.” McCoy took the cane and started dusting his elbows. “Hey, if it was intentional, you know what that means?”

An eyebrow quirked. “I assume you are referring to the dime novel trope concerning a detective who becomes close enough to learning the truth that he attracts attention from his enemies? In that case, Doctor, I would agree with you. If Hengist has begun targeting us, then we must pose a real threat to him.” Spock, paying good attention to the street, went to hail a cab.

“We may yet find more leads down at the dockyard tavern, provided that Doctor Doyle can direct us.”

A cab pulled up and Spock climbed in, giving the driver their address. McCoy was right after him, accepting assistance into the vehicle. The tackle had taken its toll, and his leg was hardly healed. It would be good to take a little break, maybe grab some lunch.

“We cannot mention this incident.”

McCoy turned to look at Spock.

“What’s your reasoning behind that one?”

Spock folded his hands in his lap. “How remarkable is it that Hengist was able to organize a following during such a short period of time? I believe that his telepathic tendencies may have something to do with it. Also…” He hesitated.

“What? He won’t help us if there’s danger?”

“No. It is further-… as you’ve said. Our endeavor is beginning to strongly resemble that of another duo, however fictitious.”

“Don’t tell me- you’re concerned about putting ideas into Doyle’s head?” McCoy crossed his arms and sat back in the seat. He looked out the window, hardly believing what he was hearing. “You, Agent _Sherrinford_ with your Chicago connections and your deductive reasoning-”

“My decisions up to this point have kept us alive and relatively well off. Doctor if you are stating that-”

“No!” McCoy interrupted. “No, you listen to me. I see that you’re trying to do this now, but you’ve already built up this… this persona for Doyle’s sake. What’s going on, Spock? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Spock was silent. McCoy stared at him, unwavering. The hobgoblin’s behavior had been unexplainable, and with an explanation at last within his grasp, he wasn’t going to back down until Spock talked.

“There is…” Spock began uncertainly, “There is a story. My mother told me once, when I was young, that one of her ancestors met her spouse at a rally of sorts. The Sherlock Holmes stories had a profound effect on the people of this time. When Doyle killed Holmes, there was a public outcry. His fans turned against him until Holmes was brought back. My mother told me of an instance where Holmes fans from around this area were uniting to write letters to Doyle and his publishers insisting that Holmes should not die, but instead make a reappearance. Mother’s ancestors became acquainted there and the rest, as you would say, is history.”

Spock paused to meet McCoy’s eye. “You could say that I have a personal interest in Sherlock Holmes, as I would not likely exist without him. As my mother used to say, he is ‘practically my ancestor’ himself.”

McCoy’s jaw fell slightly open. Spock’s ancestors met over one of the most logical minds Earth had ever created, fictional or not. _Of course they did. I bet the rest of them were all science geeks, down to the last infant child._

“I see. So you’ve got a vested interest in making sure it gets written.” It seemed reasonable. On some subconscious level, Spock might’ve been trying to put the ideas into Doyle’s head- plant the seeds. Just in case. “You want to be sure Doyle is steered clear of all this Hengist nonsense too, right? Nothing that’d put him in harm’s way?”

Spock nodded. “You are correct, Doctor.”

They fell back into silence. The cab would arrive at Doyle’s place any minute. Then, they’d have some smooth talking to do.

\------

Lunch was slow. They sat around, took their time with the food. No Doyle, as of yet. McCoy went into the washroom to get cleaned up. He could hardly stay spotless after a running tackle, anyhow. Spock took his tea and read the local paper. They would try to get as much information from local sources as they could before going to take on Hengist.

Doyle hadn’t returned to the rooms yet so McCoy took the opportunity to replace the bandage on Spock’s head. The hastily wrapped disguise wouldn’t last another encounter with Hengist’s men, and despite their criminal nature, they’d still fall into the ‘do not introduce to aliens’ category.

McCoy was just finishing up the wrapping when there was a knock on the door. _Probably the landlady._

“Come on in.” He tied off Spock’s disguise and looked over his shoulder. It was Doyle.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Doyle stepped across the threshold with a paper in his hand and a smile on his face. “I’ve telegraphed my old friend about the tavern, and I have a name for you: The Larboard Mess. It’s an old sailor’s haunt and apparently, they serve a good dinner for the dock hands.”

“Not disreputable, as far as your friend has said?” Spock queried, setting his teacup down on the saucer.

“No. Indeed, it is a somewhat lackluster establishment, but not associated with any criminal activity. How is your head, Agent Sherrinford?”

“It is not troubling me so much thanks to Doctor McCoy’s attention.”

“Alright.” McCoy interrupted. “So, this is a nice, family-friendly joint? Why would Hengist hole up there?”

Doyle looked at McCoy with something like disdain, but Spock considered the question.

“Perhaps, like on A-…merican soil, Hengist attempted to appear in accordance with the law. He acted as the Administrator in…Austin. Perhaps he means to build a reputation of the law-abiding workingman. It would fit his modus operandi.”

“You’re right!” McCoy snapped. “That’s exactly like Hengist. He was a real pain to me an’ Jim b’fore we went and forced his hand.”

Spock finished off his tea and stood. “We should go and search the area before dark.”

“Agreed.” Doyle made for the door. “I’ll collect my hat and jacket. Meet me in the lobby?”

“Sure thing, Doctor Doyle.” McCoy agreed. “We’ll be down in two shakes.”

Doyle cast a disapproving glance into the room and closed the door.

“Is it just me, or does that fella hate my guts?” McCoy shrugged the jacket on. He’d noticed Doyle’s marked dislike from the beginning.

“It appears he finds something disagreeable with you, yes.”

“Although, he’s got no problem with you.”

“I am no expert, but as far as the good taste of humans goes-”

“I’m gonna stop you right there. Come on, hot shot. We’ve got a killer to catch.”

\-----

It was another cab ride to the docks. Spock found the method of travel practical, given the resources of the century, but as far as comfort was concerned, it was severely lacking.

The Larboard Mess was a small establishment on the corner of the street- just on the edge of the dockyard proper. It was a run down place, with a couple of boards coming loose towards the roof, but nothing seriously wrong.

“Looks like a lively place, especially after dark.” McCoy looked around at the broken glass hastily swept toward the street.

“Yes, well, it is perfectly acceptable for a quiet dinner. I have the upmost faith in my friend’s tastes.” Doyle straightened his jacket, eyeing the establishment with an air of moderate offense. McCoy rolled his eyes.

“We should inquire inside.” Spock walked between the two and toward the tavern. McCoy limped after him, but Doyle was quicker, falling in step with Spock and beginning his interrogation.

They walked through the door. Doyle, out of forgetfulness or willful neglect, let the door close in McCoy’s face. He stepped back quickly. Spock hadn’t seemed to notice.

McCoy sighed. His leg hurt. Doyle was being rude, or at least overtly disinterested in regard to the other doctor. They weren’t exactly close to finding Hengist. Spock seemed to have a handle on things, but they were nowhere near actually getting back to their own time.

He glanced around the street. The foot traffic was a little heavier so late in the day, now that day laborers were starting to head home for dinner. McCoy found a wooden bench in front of the tavern and took a seat. He rubbed at the bunch of muscles above his knee. It was tiring, walking in a way that didn’t put too much pressure on his injured calf. The extra workout that these muscles were getting was starting to show. He felt just how tight his leg was. McCoy needed a break.

The dockyards were busy as ever, ships coming and going with ease in the daylight. It was summer, he remembered, and the days were longer. Doyle’s pocket watch had said five-ish in the cab. The ships would probably still be up to something at night. They did have fairly reliable lanterns in this day and age.

McCoy rubbed a hand across his face. He briefly entertained the idea of being stuck here for the rest of his life. _No. That’s not something you should dwell on. Either way… at least you’re not alone. At least you’ve got Spock, however annoying the hobgoblin might be._

He looked over his shoulder at the Larboard Mess. He could see a little through the foggy windows. Spock’s lanky frame could be distinguished bobbing from table to table, Doyle on his heels. McCoy sighed again. This was getting too tiring.

Eventually, Spock and Doyle came back out of the tavern. Spock at least seemed surprised to find McCoy here.

“Doctor, how long have you been waiting outside?”

“The whole time. Never went in. The uh… My leg. It was bothering me.” He accepted that the lame excuse was all he’d ever need. Doyle would buy it, and Spock would accept it as plausible cover. No elaboration required.

“I am sorry to hear that. Do require any assistance?” Spock sounded concerned, at the least. McCoy was grateful for that.

“No. I’m good. Did either of y’all find out anything useful?”

“Indeed. We have discovered that a man fitting Hengist’s description- although operating under the alias ‘Ennis’- has been attempting to recruit local criminals for some unknown purpose. Our sources were not very forthcoming, although, one of the two who were able to provide any information at all told us that Hengist was staying somewhere on the other side of the river.”

“All this from two guys? Isn’t that a little…?”

“Doctor McCoy, I don’t know if you understand, but we interviewed more than fifteen men.” Doyle interrupted. “The fact that two of them were able to identify your Hengist is significant. It is likely that he is in the area.”

“I agree. It is a logical assumption.”

McCoy gave Benedict Arnold his patented glare, but Spock took no notice. “Indeed, we are likely to find more information in the neighborhood that this individual described.”

“The best way to get across the river would be the bridge. Just over there, you see? No need to waste time on a ferry.”

McCoy picked out the bridge from over the tops of the boats docked nearby.

“Excellent. Lead the way, Doctor Doyle.”

Spock at least waited for McCoy to get to his feet before following Doyle toward the bridge. It was somewhat of a walk. As they neared the bridge, McCoy started taking note of their surroundings in case they had to come back this way in the dark. He made sure to see where the streetlamps were, if they had to make a dash for somewhere with a light.

The bridge itself was fairly congested. Carts and people made their way up and then down either side of the road. McCoy followed Spock following Doyle. They were passing through the foot traffic slowly, on account of McCoy’s limp. Doctor Doyle seemed oblivious to the evident struggle behind him out of his excitement for the case.

Spock looked over his shoulder. “Are you certain you are capable of making this journey, Doctor?”

McCoy snorted. “Oh sure- _Spock!”_

A man on the walkway lunged and took the Vulcan by surprise. He had something in his hand, but it was all so fast McCoy hardly had time to shout. The man bashed Spock over the head and shoved him toward the railing. Spock, dazed and unbalanced staggered. And fell.

McCoy didn’t even stop to think. He dropped his cane and shed his jacket before vaulting the railing. The bridge wasn’t far over the river, but the drop was still horrifying. McCoy hit the water moments after his friend. He surfaced for air before diving quickly under the water again. _There._ Spock was drifting just under the surface a few yards away. Ignoring the burning in his leg, McCoy shot over.

He got to Spock in a matter of moments. The First Officer was unconscious and down a hat. McCoy didn’t consider the survivability of the bandages when he grabbed Spock under the arms and kicked for the surface.

It was a hard swim to the water’s edge, but McCoy kicked for all he was worth. As soon as he felt the ground under his feet, he was carrying Spock’s limp body to the shore.

A crowd had gathered on the bridge, and a few Good Samaritans had gathered on the shore to assist if they were needed.

“Stand back.” McCoy instructed. He laid Spock gently on the ground, checking for breathing or a pulse or _something._ The pulse was steady, for a Vulcan, and Spock was indeed breathing. _Thank goodness. I’d rather not have to do CPR, regardless of the century._

Second, he examined Spock’s head injury. Whatever weapon had been used, it hadn’t broken the skin. McCoy sagged with relief. The last thing they needed was to blow their cover while Spock was unconscious. Without a silver tongue to smooth things over, McCoy didn’t know that they would be able to avoid burning at the stake.

“Doctor McCoy!” Doyle came running toward the waterline holding McCoy’s jacket and cane. “Is he all right? What on earth happened?”

McCoy sat back on his heels and took a deep breath. He wasn’t supposed to tell Doyle about the cab incident, or how Hengist was already out to get them, but how would he explain this?

“It’s one of Hengist’s men, I’m sure.” He opted for the truth. The fewer lies they could get entangled in, the better. “The guy popped out of nowhere and whacked Sherrinford a good one. He fell over the railing and I jumped in after him.”

“Oh my…” Doyle came alongside Spock’s body, handing the jacket and cane over to McCoy. “And he is… just unconscious? I would assume you would be more distressed if he was more greatly injured.”

“Yep. He’s just out cold. Pulse is fine, breathing is good.” McCoy saw Doyle’s hand going to check the pulse. He panicked. “Did you get a good look at the guy?” McCoy grabbed Doyle by the shoulders. The other doctor was surprised, to say the least.

“This could be vital! Did you see him?”

The little shake was all it took to keep Doyle distracted. “I… I did see someone. A man, taller than you or I, running in the direction we had come.”

“Yes!” McCoy was partly glad his bluff had worked, partly glad it was profiting. “What’d he look like? You see anything?”

Doyle was thinking. And while Doyle was thinking, Spock had time to bounce back. McCoy was going to keep this running until the hobgoblin sat up, which he was due to any moment now.

“I saw… he had dark hair stuffed under his cap, a long dark coat, stocky build… Likely a dock worker from the condition of his shoes.”

“Great. Keep trying to remember. Sherrinford’s great with descriptions. Cook one up and he’ll have no trouble finding the guy in a crowd again.”

A strange look passed over Doyle’s face. He met McCoy’s eye. “I could have sworn I heard you call out on the bridge… You said something along the lines of ‘Shore…Sp-”

McCoy’s breath caught. He closed his eyes. Spock would hate him forever, but he only had _one idea._ He only had _one chance_ to make sure _that name_ didn’t stick in Doyle’s memory.

“Sherlock. It’s James Sherlock Sherrinford, but he introduced himself by his middle name when we first met.” McCoy could feel the lecture he was due later, but he had to forge on. “It’s a family name and he doesn’t bring up, unless he needs a disguise. I wouldn’t mention it if I were you.”

Doyle nodded understandingly. It was in that moment, that Spock chose to make his comeback. McCoy heard the soft gasp, and was back at his friend’s side in an instant.

“Easy, Sherrinford. You’re all right. Took quite the tumble though.”

Spock sat up with McCoy’s assistance. “Did you apprehend the man who assaulted me?”

McCoy shook his head. “I was too busy taking a dive. But, Doyle here got his description. We could probably identify him if we ran into him again.”

Spock nodded slowly. “This is acceptable. I suppose we should return to the rooms. If Hengist and his supporters are aware of our presence in the area, then we had better leave before we are targeted further.”

“Good plan.” Doyle helped Spock to his feet and McCoy made use of his cane. He took his jacket back from Doyle and put it around Spock’s shoulders.

“It’s getting dark, and it’ll probably get colder.” McCoy cracked a smile. He was relieved they were heading back to safety, for many reasons.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Spock pulled the jacket tighter around his shoulders, feeling especially chilled from the unexpected swim.

They made it all the way back to The Larboard Mess without incident. McCoy and Spock took a seat on the bench while Doyle went after a cab. They sat in silence for a moment, before McCoy’s guilt got the better of him.

“Spock.”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“I have something you need to know.”

Spock turned his head to look at McCoy. The Doctor sighed.

“I kind of told Doyle your middle name was Sherlock.”

Spock’s jaw dropped. As his eyebrows took flight, he snapped it shut.

“Yeah, ok. I know. It was… When the guy clocked you, I was in the middle of a ‘Sure thing’ and a ‘Spock!’ to let you know that you were about to get it. I explained it away when Doyle brought it up on the riverbank. It was the only thing I could think of that sounded close enough.”

They fell back into silence. Finally, Spock turned back and made an observation.

“Then, it appears that we are even, Doctor.”

McCoy chuckled in spite of himself. “I guess we are. All right. No more Holmes references, if we can help it. That means if either of us gets too close, there’s no shouting ‘Norbury’ either.”

Spock’s expression changed from neutral acceptance to more of a surprised amusement. “Doctor, I did not realize you were so well versed in Holmes.”

“Well…” He drawled. “It comes in part from my high school years when they re-did Sherlock Holmes as a movie. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but it’s the one where Watson is a peacekeeper with a techno-kinetic leg. You know, I think they were trying to find a Vulcan to play Holmes, but none of y’all are very much into acting.”

Spock’s lip twitched. “I would not say ‘none’, Doctor, merely ‘most’, but I remember the film. It was intriguing, and fairly accurate to Holmes canon as far as characterization and method was concerned.” He passed McCoy’s slightly wet jacket back. The Doctor took it before responding.

“Mhmm. I went and read all the stories afterward. And when those ran out, I tried later works. _‘The Surrogate Assassin’, ‘A Study in Emerald’_ , and even those _‘Sheriff Holmes’_ books you were talking about, though I never read _‘The Serving Girl Murders’_. Never had the time.”

“Fascinating.” Spock looked off up the road where Doyle had disappeared. “It is astounding how a work of fiction could affect so many lives.”

“Yeah. I’d always-”

The peace was shattered by a piercing scream. McCoy jolted and Spock grabbed his arm.

“It came from the alley! Hurry, Doctor!”

McCoy snatched up his cane and followed Spock to the alley, fast as he was able. There was a shadow moving up ahead. “Hey!” McCoy called. “Wait!”

The shadow took off around the corner. Spock lunged ahead, and then stopped short.

“Doctor McCoy, quickly!”

McCoy dodged the garbage bins and came to Spock’s side. He immediately dropped to the ground. At Spock’s feet…

“H-help…” She breathed. McCoy looked over the girl’s body, but it didn’t take a doctor to see the problem. He took off his jacket and wadded it up, pressing the fabric onto the injury.

“She’s been stabbed, Spock. If we were back on the ship…” Spock wasn’t there. He’d likely gone after this young lady’s assailant. And she was young… McCoy froze, hesitant to touch her, move her, do anything besides hold his jacket down. It was an arterial bleed. Stabbed through the abdomen. He hated this. If only he could call the _Enterprise._ If only he had his medical kit.

But he didn’t. The girl reached out and grasped at his hand. McCoy took her small hand in his. He could see the fear in her eyes. He was losing her, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Not even ease the pain, as he didn’t have his hypospray on him.

“Shh.” He tried to console her. “It’s ok. Everything’s going to be all right. I’m a doctor. I’m a doctor, I’ll take care of you.” He put his other hand back on the jacket, applying mild pressure to the wound. “Help is on the way.” He lied through his teeth.

Through her tears, the girl smiled up at him. He’d say she was in her late teens, early twenties. Maybe married, maybe already with kids. McCoy held her hand tighter.

By the time Spock returned, she was already gone. McCoy sat there in the dirt, still holding her hand.

“Doctor…” Spock stopped short. McCoy hadn’t moved or changed position at his approach. He was staring at the body, not showing signs that he had even heard.

‘Doctor McCoy.” Spock tried again, putting a hand on McCoy’s shoulder. The Doctor finally looked up, the pain plain in his eyes.

Spock accepted some guilt at this plan, but the action was necessary. “We must leave, Doctor. We cannot afford to be detained by police. Hengist’s men are in the area. We must go, now.”

McCoy looked back down at the girl. Spock knew what he had to do. He grabbed McCoy by the arm and hauled him upright. The doctor was startled out of his daze.

“Spock…?”

Spock bent down and handed McCoy his cane. “Doyle is waiting with the cab. Go.” He gently shoved his companion toward the mouth of the alley. A few people on the street were looking on, but no one seemed to pay them too much attention. Spock found Doyle and the cab quickly. He bundled McCoy inside and then gave the driver their address.

Inside the cab, McCoy did nothing but stare out the window. He ran his hand up and down his arm absently. Spock pondered the behavior. _There was nothing he could have done to save the girl. It was already too late when we arrived on the scene. As an illogical human, Doctor McCoy may be having trouble processing…_ It occurred to him that it might not be best to bring this up in front of Doctor Doyle. He let the rest of the ride go by in silence.

Back at the rooms, McCoy went straight for the washroom and locked the door. Spock accepted that his colleague would need some time to compose himself, and went about changing into his uniform pants and black t-shirt. They would serve well as sleeping attire.

Doctor Doyle had already expressed his desire to turn in for the night, and Spock had given his farewell. This left him alone in the room, with only cold tea and the newspaper for company. He crossed to the dresser in the corner and found the room’s supply of linens. There was a thick blanket at the bottom of the stack, which Spock removed and took back to the couch with him.

He settled down and replayed the day’s events in his mind. Their investigation had narrowed the search area down to the neighborhood surrounding the Larboard Mess. He was sure that Hengist was responsible for the young lady’s murder. They were getting close.

Sooner or later, he would have to address the problem of making Hengist return them to their own time. He supposed a mind-meld might serve in dire circumstances, but there was always the chance he could talk Hengist into returning them of his own free will.

The washroom door opened. McCoy returned, also having changed clothes.

“Great minds think alike, huh, Spock?” He smiled tiredly. The Doctor’s hair was still mussed and damp from the river, and he looked worn out.

“You are exhausted.” Spock watched as McCoy took a blanket from the open cabinet as well.

“I’d say that my ‘get up and go’ has ‘got up and went’.” McCoy pulled the blanket around his shoulders and took a seat across from Spock. “So… do you have anything new?”

Spock pursed his lips and examined the Doctor. McCoy’s eyes were rimmed red, and he looked paler than normal. _Perhaps the physical and emotional stresses of the day have caught up with him. Their effects are apparent._

“Perhaps you should retire for the evening.” Spock suggested.

“What,” McCoy scoffed, “And have you miss another night of sleep? Don’t think I don’t keep track of your sleep cycles, hobgoblin. Just ‘cause you’re Vulcan doesn’t mean you don’t need a good eight hours like the rest of us. If you’re not sleeping…” McCoy crossed his arms stubbornly, “Then neither am I.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. True, he would benefit from a night’s rest. There was one point that he felt like the Doctor was overlooking.

“There is only the one bed, and this sofa is hardly big enough for a either of us to sleep comfortably on.”

He saw McCoy’s eyes widen, then flick to the bed in the corner. He studied the couch with some scrutiny, then the carpet, then and the wood floor. McCoy sighed.

“Ok. Listen, Spock, we’re both adults. Starfleet Officers. We’ve got to reach some sort of compromise.”

“I agree, Doctor. It would only be logical.”

In the end, McCoy wrapped himself in his own blanket, pushed himself as far from Spock and the wall as he was capable, and put a pillow between them. “I kick sometimes” had been his excuse. They both settled after some time. Spock felt himself drifting.

It was inevitable. Throughout the night, he’d been inched closer. Closer. Spock had entertained the possibility, but had never considered that this would actually happen. Their arrangement had fallen apart. He felt McCoy’s contact and he knew it was over.

Spock hit the floor with a muffled thud. The sheets encased him entirely, and he was crammed between the bed and the wall. Slowly, McCoy had been claiming more and more of the bed, causing Spock to adjust. Finally, it had become too much.

Spock lay on the floor, contemplating his life choices up until this point. Befriending an illogical human as temperamental as this one may have proved to be a mistake. He couldn’t even sleep peacefully without disturbing Spock somehow. Really. It should have been apparent from the beginning.

He considered getting up, shoving McCoy to the far end of the bed and trying to salvage this night’s sleep, but he found himself unable to move very far. The sheet had him snugly wrapped, and the space between the wall and the bed was tight. Spock resigned himself to his fate. In the morning, Doctor McCoy would get up and search for him. He would be found, mocked, and then he would have to begin a tirade of his own regarding the Doctor’s inconsiderate sleeping habits.

A sound reached his ears and Spock stilled. It wasn’t McCoy’s snores- he’d learned to disregard those already- it was something else.

Again. This time he identified the noise: footsteps.

Spock had no option but to sit and wait. He would pay careful attention to the sound and try to alert Doctor McCoy before-

There were too many footsteps. His brain registered this before the door opened. He could hear the sound difference; feel the tiny gust of air from outside. The feet quickened their pace. Closer. They stopped. Spock could feel the tension of multiple people in a small space. Someone whispered an order.

The bed shuddered as the intruders converged on the sleeping Doctor. Spock could hear it in the fray- McCoy’s muffled shout of surprise, his struggle. There were too many. Spock stayed as still as possible. The bed pushed back on him then returned as McCoy was hauled off. The sounds of the Doctor’s distress grew. The scuffling increased. Spock remained still and held his breath.

“Just one?” A voice hissed. Hengist. “A pity. It’s not even the dangerous one.”

There was another noise, the impact on flesh, McCoy’s stifled shout. Logically, knowing of the Doctor’s injury, Hengist would exploit any weakness.

“Take him anyway. Use the rug.” Hengist instructed. “It will be easiest.”

Spock tried to block out the sound, but McCoy’s labored breathing cut through like a knife. One of Hengist’s men repositioned himself in the group. There was a sharp _crack_ and all of McCoy’s sounds ceased.

 _They have rendered the Doctor unconscious._ Spock was still frozen in place. He listened intently. Some of Hengist’s men were moving the furniture. He admired their swift and quiet work, but it did not bode well for McCoy. Spock heard the carpet being dragged over. There was a thud, what he could only assume was McCoy hitting the floor, and then Hengist’s men were on the move again.

 _They will roll the Doctor into the rug and take him from the premises without arousing suspicion. I did not suspect such cleverness from Hengist, but…_ Spock realized something then. He had made the classic mistake of underestimating his enemy. Hengist had been able to survive undetected for centuries. He would know how to stop only _two people_ trying to apprehend him. _Additionally, Hengist has managed to track our movements both in town and back to this residence. He no doubt has resources at his disposal._

Spock was making these realizations too late. Hengist had things wrapped up, as it were, and he and his henchmen were departing. Still on the floor, Spock was forced to sit and listen while Doctor McCoy was carried away.

Once the footsteps had faded out, Spock began struggling. It didn’t take long to push the bed far enough from the wall for him to escape, but he made a considerable racket in the process. Enough to draw outside attention.

There was a knock on the door, but Doyle entered without waiting for a response.

“Is everything all ri- Goodness! Agent Sherrinford!” In the dimness, Spock could make out Doyle’s figure in the doorway. The doctor held a candle in one hand and the doorknob in the other.

“I am unharmed, doctor, if you will give me a moment.” Spock maneuvered out of the sheet and picked himself up. “We have no time to lose. They have taken Doctor McCoy.”

“What? Who, this Hengist? He’s been here?”

Spock moved to the suitcase and pulled out the slipper with his and McCoy’s badges inside. “Doctor Doyle, are you in possession of a cloth bag?”

“I am.”

“Could you retrieve it for me?”

Doyle nodded and retreated to his room. Spock took this opportunity to make sure his bandage was secure. He then put on his uniform shirt and bundled McCoy’s medical kit and the slipper inside the Doctor’s shirt. Doyle returned, partially dressed and holding the bag. Spock took it, stuffed McCoy’s shirt inside and slung the strap over his shoulder.

“We must make haste, doctor. Are you ready?”

“I’ll grab my coat on the way out. Let’s get after them.”

They raced outside. There weren’t any cabs on the street at this time of night, but the pair knew where they had to go. Spock led the way toward the Larboard Mess and the docks, having made note of the route. Doyle struggled to keep pace with him, but Spock was a force to be reckoned with. It was a good thing that they ran across as available cab. Spock paid more than the customary fare for the driver’s haste.

Outside the Larboard Mess, now closed for the night, Spock began his search anew. It was possible that they might find some clue, such as a vehicle large enough to hold the rug and all of Hengist’s henchmen.

“There!” Doyle grabbed Spock’s sleeve and pointed. A vehicle larger than a cab was parked outside of one of the dockyard warehouses. It was the only one of it’s kind within their sight range.

“Quickly.” Spock took off toward the building. He could hear the distance between his and Doyle’s footsteps. The dockyards were dark. The streetlamps and the moon worked in tandem to illuminate Spock’s path. He stopped next to the vehicle and examined it. No signs. He approached the building slowly.

A figure appeared from the shadows and Spock reacted. Not a moment later, the man was sprawled on the street. The move that rendered him unconscious would not be seen again on Earth for centuries.

“I say!” Doyle panted, coming to a stop beside him. “What exactly do you call that?”

Caution to the wind. “Baritsu.”

Spock slipped into the shadows and made his way along the side of the building. As soon as he found a window, Spock stopped. It was higher off the ground than he could easily reach. He took a few steps back, ran, and jumped. Gripping the sill by his fingertips, Spock glanced inside.

He was not pleased.

Doyle appeared at his side again. The doctor was tiring quickly.

“Well? What’s it like in there?”

Spock dropped. “They have McCoy.”

“We’ve found them, then? Best call the police. They’ll be able to handle this.”

“That is inadvisable. Doctor McCoy has a much higher, if not certain, chance of being injured or killed if we involve law enforcement officials.”

Doyle scowled. “What do you mean? Doctor McCoy would be caught in the crossfire? Didn’t he understand the risks when he took this assignment? This is the only way to capture Hengist and his gang. Think of that, man!”

A deep breath through his nostrils. “Doctor Doyle. I do not believe that you understand. I cannot, under any circumstances, risk the safety of the Doctor- of my friend- in such a manner. Not when there is another way. I will do everything in my power to rescue him _and_ apprehend Hengist.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No.” Spock extended a hand. “And you will likely not for sometime. Goodnight, doctor.” He closed his fingers around the nerve cluster in Doyle’s shoulder. Then, carefully lifting the doctor, Spock carried him to the bench outside of the Larboard Mess. Quickly, he placed the suggestion in Doyle’s mind- that he and McCoy weren’t quite real, merely warped perceptions of people he had met during a night of drinking. As he finished his task, Spock remembered the clothes and the suitcase in Doyle’s rooms.

_There will always be the shadow of doubt. As a mystery writer, I am sure he will appreciate it._

Spock returned to the warehouse with all speed. The scene inside had been more troubling than he had hypothesized.

Hengist had commandeered the warehouse, judging by the bodies of what appeared to be dock foremen in the corner of the room. It was well illuminated. Six rough looking men were seated on or standing by the crates scattered around the room. Each looked bored, some conversed among themselves, some were seen napping. Hengist himself was seated in a chair at the far end of the room, nearer to the offices. There were two chairs adjacent.

Spock decided that he knew Hengist’s endgame. The second chair. He wanted Spock and McCoy together, to finish them off together. His only threat in one fell swoop. It would likely be slow and painful, if Hengist’s previous murders were anything to go by.

That, and McCoy had been in very bad shape. The first chair. He had McCoy bound and gagged securely, no chance for escape. Not in the Doctor’s condition. There might have been additional injuries, if Hengist’s behavior in their rooms had been anything to judge by.

There was one option open to Spock with a high enough chance of success. To take one out of Jim Kirk’s playbook: hit them hard and keep them down. Spock would have to break into the warehouse undetected and take out Hengist’s men before they could capture him. Then, he would rescue McCoy and force Hengist to take them back to their own time. It was hardly a solid plan, but it was Spock’s best option.

He did another lap around the building. There was a back door. Knowing how Hengist had gotten the better of them before Spock didn’t want to risk something so simple. He continued. This time, on the south side of the building, he noticed a high-set pair of windows. Too high for anyone to reach. Then again, ‘anyone’ living in this time and place didn’t include Vulcans.

Spock planned his actions out carefully. The building was made of brick. The gaps would be far too small to be used effectively as handholds. Fortunately, the door was close by. Spock made up his mind and acted quickly. He ran to the door, put his foot to the handle, and sprang up to the top. Getting his balance was difficult, but Spock managed to stay upright on the thin doorframe.

Not a moment too soon, either. The door beneath him opened and he almost lost his footing. It was one of Hengist’s men. He scanned the surrounding area, lingered in the doorway, and eventually went back inside. Spock exhaled. It was becoming difficult to remain in this position.

The windowsill was by far more attainable now. Spock prepared himself. He jumped.

The sill was sturdy. His grip held. Steady still, Spock hoisted himself up so he could sit. Now that he had a good look at the window, he determined it would be easy to open. Just inside the warehouse, there was a balcony, which served as a storage and additional office space.

Spock inched the window open. It did not seem important to the warehouse’s owners to lock this window. Then again, if they had been the men downstairs… Perhaps that possibility had not occurred to them either. Spock dropped onto the balcony silently.

He could hear Hengist’s men now. Most spoke in low tones. Occasionally, a gruff chuckle would rise above the general noise. He could see the entire floor of the warehouse now. There were eight henchmen. Hengist and McCoy were separate from the main group by a considerable distance.

Spock took this opportunity to assess the Doctor’s condition again. McCoy appeared to still be unconscious. He was slumped forward in the chair, with only the ropes to keep him in place. As far as Spock could tell, he was breathing. That was vital.

Hengist was relaxing. The killer had apparently been busy, claiming two more victims before Spock had arrived on the scene. He could only hope he got to McCoy before Hengist grew impatient… or bored.

Spock took in the scene again. Three of eight were napping. If he could get behind them, he could render them unconscious without anyone realizing. That would take some doing. They were mainly dozing in chairs or, in one’s case, leaning up against the wall. His best course of action would be to take the two seated men first, then the one on the far wall.

At the other end of the balcony, there was a ladder that led down to the main floor. Further back in the shadows, there was a staircase. The ladder would take him closer to the lights, but the staircase led right past Hengist and the group at the table. No, unfortunately, the ladder was his best bet.

Spock endeavored to be silent. No one on the floor had taken notice of him yet. He went into a crouch and worked his way along the railing. Once he reached the ladder, he surveyed the room again. No one had made a significant change in their behavior. Even Hengist seemed to be at rest.

 _Now is the time._ Spock mounted the ladder. He proceeded slowly. Always careful. Rung after rung, he descended soundlessly. At last, the floor. Spock dismounted. He rolled to cover quickly. From his position behind the crate, Spock could see his first target. Just in front of him- a sleeping henchman.

Spock stalked forward. He was within arm’s reach. Next target.

The next went down just as quietly.

The third was no trouble.

Spock eyed the table. He would have to take out all three without alerting Hengist, but only after removing the other two on his left. Nobody knew he was here yet. This could work to his advantage. Of the lanterns in the room, two were located fairly close by. He supposed if he could turn them off, the henchmen would get up to turn them back on. But then, they would know someone was there. If he could take them all out in the cover of darkness, there was a chance.

The first lantern flickered on top of a crate a few feet away. As Spock’s eyes were more accustomed to the dark than anyone else’s in the room, he would have an advantage when it went out. He crept forward. It was as simple as a breath of air.

“Someone go relight that.” Hengist ordered lazily from his chair. He kicked back, reveling in his success. _Not for very much longer,_ Spock thought.

One of the henchmen was coming his way. Spock tensed, ready. As soon as he was close enough, Spock sprang. The man was out without a sound. Quickly, Spock retreated. The distance to the next lantern closed. It was much darker.

“Alright,” Hengist rose from his chair. “You two- check this out. The rest of you, get up! He’s here.”

Hengist was more astute than Spock had been lead to believe. Then again, once was coincidence, twice was design. The killer had gotten up and moved around to position himself behind McCoy. The Doctor was starting to come around.

Spock lunged at the next man who wandered into the darkness. The sound of his body hitting the floor spooked Hengist. As the next henchman approached with caution, Spock found himself having to exercise his own. Hengist had pulled back McCoy’s head. There was the glint of a knife.

One wrong move was unthinkable. No margin for error. No mistakes. Spock’s actions were precise, quick, devastating. The last man was down. Taking advantage of the darkness, Spock worked his way back around the crates while Hengist was still searching for him.

As he neared, Spock heard Hengist murmuring to himself.

“No…” The murderer mumbled. “No, no, you’re supposed to be _afraid_. I’ve got a knife to your neck and here you are… This display is sickening. I’ll kill you slowly, let him watch, and then he’s next. Afraid now? No? Still no! Always no!”

Hengist had raised his voice. Spock was close enough to see the pained expression on McCoy’s face. In pain, but unafraid.

“You’ll be afraid! You’ll be afraid when I change my mind and kill him first!” Hengist shrieked. “You’ll see, then. But it will be too late! Too late for you, and too late for him!”

Spock made the last steps at a sprint. Using Hengist’s distraction to his advantage, he immobilized the killer’s wrist and wrenched the knife away from McCoy’s neck. Hengist became unbalanced and Spock moved in to take control of the situation. One twist later, and it was Hengist’s turn to be trapped.

“You have ceased to be a threat. It appears that Doctor McCoy was correct.” Spock marched Hengist back over toward McCoy’s chair. He managed to get his other hand on the chair back before the killer moved.

Spock recognized the device. It was Hengist’s last hope of escape. Spock reached down and gripped McCoy’s collar for all he was worth. Fog started rolling in from all directions.

“Fool! You’ve doomed yourselves! We’ll come out of this again, and I’ll do what I should have done last time!”

The whirling cloud began to form in front of them. Spock ran through his options. Soon, the singularity would be complete. They would go back through. Their energy would be sapped by the transport. Hengist would kill them both without hesitation.

Spock took the only avenue open to him. Keeping his elbow around Hengist’s throat, he maneuvered his hand as close to the psi-points on the murderer’s face as he could get.

_Stop._

All fell silent. He poured his strength into the suggestion.

_You will go back to Argelius. The same time, the same place you left._

He could feel Hengist fighting back. The killer was already weak from activating the device and… McCoy’s resistance. Spock felt the residual irritation at the Doctor through the link. He used this to strengthen his resolve.

_You will power the device fully. Use you energy and yours alone. It is the only way you will succeed. These are weak. You are strong._

Hengist began accepting the suggestion, but Spock’s influence was not total. McCoy made a slightly panicked noise. The cloud had begun to swirl. It had long since started glowing.

_You must! It is the only way to victory! Victory over the weak!_

“Victory…” Hengist murmured. “Over the weak… Yes. Yes!”

The fog turned green. Hengist fell. Spock fell with him, and dragged McCoy along as well.

Air rushing, heat increasing with every second that passed. Spock kept a firm grip around Hengist’s neck and squeezed McCoy’s collar for dear life. A tingle ran down Spock’s spine as the air around them began crackling with electricity. The rushing noise increased in volume.

Louder, louder. Falling ever faster, Spock held on. He was overwhelmed.

The dry heat seared his skin like the sting of desert sand. Hot, dry. Unbearable.

Light. Increasingly bright. So bright, Spock was forced to shut his eyes and turn away.

The light at the end of the tunnel, as it was. Just as it seemed their world would end in fire, Spock felt the pavement beneath his feet. His knees buckled. He released McCoy before he fell, lest he cause the Doctor more harm.

Hengist staggered off to the side. It was the same alley, with the same dead end. Hengist turned. His face was twisted with rage. A finger extended, singling out Spock, condemning him.

“You.” Hengist rasped.

It was the last thing he said before erupting. Hengist exploded from the inside out. His atoms danced, moving away from his core. He glowed. With a remarkable force, the energy being burst outward and with equal suddenness collapsed back in on himself, arcs of lighting spiraling inward, decreasing into nothingness.

Spock gazed at the spot where Hengist had stood. The afterimage of the blinding light still danced in his eyes. He sighed. It was over. At long last, it was over. Immediately, he remembered McCoy. Spinning, he found the Doctor exactly as he had left him- tied to the chair on one side of the alley.

Staggering, Spock got to his feet and made his way to McCoy’s side. The Doctor was conscious and breathing. That was the first thing he noticed. His fingers moved quickly to the ropes. The bonds fell away one by one.

Spock worked in a frenzy. The Doctor had been treated deplorably. From Hengist himself, to his henchmen… Spock realized much of McCoy’s exhaustion was a result of his own actions. Who had instigated the trip across the bridge, failed to recognize the clear and present danger, failed to protect the Doctor at his most vulnerable?

_It was I. I am responsible for this pain. If I had stopped Hengist and his men… If I had stopped Hengist in the beginning. Before he activated the device. Before he stabbed Jim…_

“This is my fault.” He loosed the ropes around McCoy’s ankles and stood from his crouch. If he had kept his wits, he might have removed the gag first and alleviated some of the Doctor’s suffering. Yet another failure of neglect. Poor planning. His actions of late reeked of it. _Poor planning. It has not been a historic failing of mine, but one that might have had deadly consequences._

“Spock…” McCoy rasped. He’d got his arms curled around his chest. Spock recognized the unconscious protective gesture. “Spock. It’s not.”

“Doctor, I-”

“It’s. _Not._ Your fault. It’s Hengist’s. Hengist killed those women. Hengist threw us back in time. Hengist- no, actually, his boys beat me senseless, but Hengist was the one who told ‘em to.” McCoy slouched and leaned his head against the chair back. “You wouldn’t blame Holmes for ‘Killer’ Evans, now would you?”

Spock floundered for a counter argument. “Given his powers of observation, Holmes should have known about the weapon in question.”

“It’s still not his bad. Holmes didn’t pull the trigger. But, he did do something- he made it right. You made it right, Spock. I owe you both an apology and a thank you.”

“Doctor McCoy. I…”

“This is the part where you say ‘you’re welcome, Doctor, though gratitude is illogical’ and then have me beamed back to the ship. Everything hurts, Spock. Everything. Get me outta here.”

Spock’s eyebrow finally began its descent. “As you wish, Doctor. Let me give you a hand.”

Together, they got McCoy to his feet. As neither of them had their communicators, it would be a walk back to Jaris’s interrogation room. They would call the ship, see the Captain, clear Scotty’s name once and for all. McCoy leaned on Spock as they made their way home. Together.

 

 


End file.
